Hot Blood

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

Copyright

“You gave me an ultimatum. Either I marry you or we stop seeing each other.”

“It wasn’t an ultimatum!”

“We both know what you meant, don’t we? Either I marry you or you won’t sleep with me again.”

Kit stared back, her face clenched in misery and anger.

“Yes, that’s what I said,” she agreed. “I want a man who loves me enough to want to live with me, a man who loves me enough to be ready to make a commitment to me…. Obviously that man isn’t you!”

Dear Reader,

In this book I deal with the sin of Sloth. Sometimes when you’ve been under a terrible strain, it is vital to take time out, to let your physical and emotional bruises heal before getting back into life’s struggles.

But there’s another form of laziness. I picture this as the two-toed sloth, a comical, cuddly, furry animal, lumbering along a branch upside down, taking forever to get anywhere. It’s a rather lovable creature and we all know someone who is prone to move like that, refusing to hurry, or make decisions, reluctant to take responsibility, putting off until tomorrow what they should do today. You can hurt someone you love, who loves you, by being slow to show how you feel; you might even lose them altogether.

Charlotte Lamb

Hot Blood

Charlotte Lamb

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

THE film ended suddenly and the house lights came up before Kit had time to pull herself together. She scrabbled in her bag for a handkerchief, her head bent so that her silvery hair half hid the tears streaming down her face.

She didn’t want anyone to notice her. She felt stupid, sitting here in floods of tears over an old black and white movie made before most of the audience had even been born!

Kit was a film buff, obsessed with the cinema and with the techniques of filming; it was her hobby. She had a camcorder and often spent a weekend filming landscapes or recording amateur productions at the little local theatre in town. She particularly loved old black and white films. They had so much more atmosphere; a tension and power that films shot in colour simply didn’t have, and possessed a sense of the past—nostalgia—which she found irresistible.

When the Classic Film Club had opened at this small cinema, once known as the Flea Pit but now modernised and given the grandiose name of the Imperial—although everyone still called it the Flea Pit—Kit had immediately become a member. She wasn’t so much interested in seeing the films themselves, which were mostly available on video now, but the club also had monthly lectures by film critics, directors, and actors; occasionally it even got hold of a rare old film which you wouldn’t get on video.

People began pushing past her, hurrying to get home or into the Chinese restaurant across the road, which was always busy at this time of night.

‘Excuse me!’ they said impatiently, and Kit struggled to her feet to let them get by, trying to make herself very small, which wasn’t difficult because she was only five feet two. She mumbled apologies, still clutching her handkerchief, pretending to be blowing her nose.

Only when the last one had filed past did she turn to follow, and that was when she realised that there was one other person still sitting in the row, in the seat next to her.

He was sitting sideways, arms folded, watching her, his long legs crossed, one foot swinging rhythmically, and he clearly had no intention of moving.

When their eyes met he murmured conversationally, as if they were old friends, ‘I haven’t seen a woman cry over a film for years. First time you’ve seen Camille?’

Kit felt herself go pink, and rather crossly nodded. Had he been watching her for long? She had been so engrossed in the film that she hadn’t even noticed who was sitting next to her.

Giving him a rapid inspection, for a disconcerting instant she felt she knew him. There was something distinctly familiar about the set of his head, the rough brown hair silvered here and there by time, and the smiling, charming blue eyes. Or did he just resemble someone else? Who? She frowned, trying to remember, but the fleeting recognition had slipped away. Oh, well, maybe she’d come up with a name later.

‘Is it the first time you’ve seen it too?’ she asked, curious about him. He didn’t look the type to love lushly romantic films, but then men could be deceptive. She had once had a short affair with a guy who had looked big and strong and dependable, and had been old enough to be all three, but had turned out to be tied to his mother’s apron strings, incapable of doing a thing for himself, and about as tough as a paper hankie.

He gave her a charming, lazy smile. ‘I can’t remember how many times I’ve seen Camille. I’m a big Garbo fan. Are you? I’ve seen all her films over and over again but this one is my favourite. Have you read the book or seen the opera?’

Kit laughed until she saw from his face that he hadn’t been joking. ‘You mean there really is an opera?’ she asked, her green eyes wide, glittering and sharp like shards of broken green glass in sunlight.

‘La Traviata—have you ever seen that?’

She shook her head. ‘I’ve heard of it, of course, but I’m not that keen on opera. I’ve never seen La Traviata, although I have heard the music quite often.’

‘Oh, you’d love this opera—same storyline, more or less, but even sadder and more romantic than the film—but that’s the music.’ He smiled, and she blinked at how good-looking that smile made him.

His hair might have been going grey but his features were spare and rugged and his eyes held charm. ‘Without music any film loses half its impact, don’t you agree? You can do without words, but music creates the mood.’

Kit nodded. ‘Absolutely. And they realised that right from the start of cinema. Even silent films were always accompanied by music—live music in that case, of course—a pianist or an organist. Even a trio, I gather, and—’

Behind them there was a meaningful cough, and Kit looked round and saw the cinema usherette, a pert blonde who wore a lot of make-up, impatiently tapping her foot and glaring. ‘Oh, sorry! Are we the last to leave?’

‘Yes, and we’re waiting to lock up! Are you coming, or shall we leave you here all night?’

The girl turned on her heel and flounced off and Kit got up, grimacing. ‘Oh, dear, she’s cross now.’

The man stood up too, and immediately towered over her, making Kit feel smaller than ever as she followed him up the steps into the brightly lit foyer where the manager was waiting to lock up behind them.

‘I was beginning to think you two planned to stay all night,’ he told them in irritable tones.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting; it was such a great evening’s entertainment,’ the tall man said, and gave him one of those smiles which changed his face. Kit watched the other man’s features relax, saw an answering smile.

‘Glad you enjoyed it, sir. We had an almost full house tonight; we always do for Garbo. Come again. Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight,’ they said, walking out through the big plate-glass doors which the manager locked behind them.

A cold March wind blew along the rain-wet street, and Kit shivered. Who would have thought that it was nearly spring? The passage of time had begun to depress her in recent years; it went too fast and she was worried by the speed with which the year flashed by. Am I getting old? she thought, and felt like breaking into a run, as though that would take her far away from such gloomy thoughts.

Before she could move, though, the tall man took hold of her coat collar and raised it so that it framed her face, sheltered her from the wind. She gave him a startled look, tensing at the feel of his gloved hands against her skin. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘You looked cold.’ His hands still in position on either side of her head, he bent towards her and murmured, ‘Fancy a Chinese meal?’

Kit’s green eyes widened. ‘You’re a fast worker! I don’t even know your name!’

‘Don’t be so Victorian!’

Oh, yes, he certainly had charm, she thought—a warm, lazy charm which showed most when his face was in motion, talking, laughing. He must have been a real drop-dead knockout when he was young. How old was he now? she wondered, eyeing him assessingly.

Younger than me, anyway, she decided. Not fifty yet. Getting on that way, but he looks good for his age. Men always did—that annoyed her whenever she thought about it. It was so unfair.

‘Like what you see?’ he asked, watching her watching him, his eyes bright as if he liked to have her looking at him.

‘I’m thinking about it,’ she told him tartly. She was no teenager to be swept off her feet by a stranger who tried to pick her up in a cinema! But she was flattered, she couldn’t deny it. Maybe he was short-sighted and thought she was much younger than she actually was?

Who are you trying to kid? she cynically told herself. She probably looked older than her years! Along with all the other advantages they had, men aged slower than women. They didn’t live as long, of course. Women tended to outlive them, but life did not compensate by letting women keep their looks into old age.

Time started in on you once you were in your forties, pencilling wrinkles in around your eyes and mouth, especially if you had ever smiled a lot, which seemed doubly unfair. Women with cold faces and cold hearts kept a smooth skin longer. If you were active, keen on skiing or sailing or just being out in the fresh air and sunshine, you paid for that too. I probably have skin like an old prune, she thought, remembering holidays in the sun, on boats and in Austria, skiing.

Oh, well, she had had a wonderful time during all those years, and she didn’t regret a minute of it, but she avoided mirrors these days.

‘Well, don’t take too long making up your mind,’ he drawled. ‘Sorry to rush you, and I don’t normally go this fast, but I don’t want to let you go before I get a chance to find out more about you and make sure I am going to see you again.’

Kit was breathless and, for once, wordless. I know who he looks like! she thought at that instant. Clark Gable. All he needs is a moustache.

He gazed down into her eyes and said softly, ‘I’ll start by telling you I’m Joe Ingram. I’m forty-two, divorced, heterosexual; I’ve lived in a lot of different places, in a lot of different countries, and I’ve only just moved here, but I’ve suddenly decided I’m going to love it.’

Kit gave him an incredulous look. ‘Is there anything wrong with your eyesight, Joe? For your information, I’m fifty-two—that’s ten years older than you! I’m also divorced, I have a son of twenty-six who’s married with two kids of his own, and my hair is silver where it used to be blonde.’

He put out a long forefinger and curled a strand of her hair around it. ‘It’s naturally silver? I thought you’d dyed it. It looks terrific—and you didn’t tell me your name.’

‘Kit—Kit Randall,’ she said slowly, staring at him. ‘Did you hear what I said? I’m ten years older than you.’

‘I’m not deaf; of course I heard you. I’m not hung up on age. Are you? That’s a very conventional attitude.’

‘This is a very conventional little town, Joe. Most small towns are very hot on traditions and conventions—at least, in England they are; and Silverburn is no different. I know—I’ve lived here all my life.’

It seemed a terrible confession as she said it; he was clearly sophisticated, cosmopolitan, experienced, the very opposite of her quiet, stay-at-home self. She had never had the urge to go away from this tranquil, beautiful corner of England with its hedged green fields, deep, shady woods and ancient villages.

This town was very old too, with houses from every period of English history—medieval, Elizabethan, Georgian, Victorian and modern—all muddled up together and yet merging into a graceful whole, weathered by time and use.

Silverburn was a tourist attraction because a famous eighteenth-century poet had been born here, whose house was on the pilgrimage map, particularly for Americans since his son had emigrated there after his death. Silverburn was also a friendly little town, with a strong sense of identity. The local population of the town was small enough to have the necessary community spirit; people grew up here and stayed, hardly ever moved away the way Kit had.

She felt lucky to have been born here; she was very happy with her life, and yet suddenly she wondered if she was going to bore him, if he was going to find her dull compared with other women that he must have known in all those other places in which he had lived.

Curious, she asked him, ‘What job do you do, Joe? Why have you lived in so many different countries?’

‘I’ve been a photographer for years, working on an international magazine, and freelancing of late. Now I’m writing my autobiography; it will be quite short, I think, because I’m not much good with words; it will just be a commentary to go with a collection of my best pictures.’

‘It sounds fascinating. Will I have seen any of your work?’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe. That’s enough about mewhat about you? You forgot to say if you’re free.’

She half wished she could say yes, she was, but she shook her head, her mouth level and regretful.

‘No, not really.’

He grimaced. ‘Sorry to hear that. I suppose you remarried after the divorce?’

‘No, I’m not married! And you ask too many questions!’ Suddenly angry, she began to walk away fast and he caught up with her.

‘Sorry if I upset you. Look, it isn’t really late! Come for a coffee across the street. Please.’

Kit hesitated, then a little reluctantly shook her head. ‘Sorry. I must get home.’

‘To a man?’

She looked all the way up at him, green eyes wide, startled and laughing. ‘You do believe in being direct, don’t you?’

‘No time to be anything else once you’re over forty!’

She laughed again. ‘True. No, I don’t live with anyone.’ As she heard herself say it she also heard an echo deep inside her—a sadness, a regret. She lived alone and she hated it more every day. She was lonely and she ached to have a real home again, someone to come home to, someone who cared whether she came home or not. It was dreary going back to a dark, empty flat and going to bed alone.

‘Then if there’s nobody waiting up for you, come and have a coffee,’ said Joe firmly, pushing his hand between her arm and her body and urging her across the street to where a new, modern coffee-bar was brightly lit and full of young people talking and laughing and drinking coffee.

Kit lagged behind, staring at all those intent, alive young faces and feeling out of it, old, left behind. ‘I really shouldn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know a thing about you.’

‘You know a lot about me,’ he argued. ‘You know my name, how old I am, that I’m a lonely stranger here, and that I love Greta Garbo. And anyway, what on earth could I do to you in a coffee-bar full of other people?’

Kit was very tempted. But it would be reckless to accept—whatever he said, she knew very little about him.

Of course, she found him attractive. He had a powerful, firm body under his clothes—you could tell that just by the way he walked—and his eyes had a naughty twinkle, like a little boy’s. He obviously liked life, and she liked the way he dressed too—casually but with style, in good brown checked tweeds, a cream shirt, no tie, with a bright red silky scarf hanging round his neck inside his open camelhair winter coat. And he had such a charming smile.

But her small-town mind wouldn’t let her take the risk easily. How did she even know that Joe Ingram was really his name, or that he wasn’t married with three point five children? Yet she wanted to go on talking to him; she was enjoying his company and she was reluctant to say goodbye; she couldn’t deny it.

What can he do to you in a coffee-bar? she asked herself impatiently. Don’t be such an idiot.

‘So long as you let me pay for my own coffee,’ she finally said, and he grinned at her in amusement.

‘The independent type! Well, that’s fine by me. I’m certainly not going to argue.’

As they walked across the road she looked sideways at him, measuring his height beside her, a little daunted by it, and wondering if his overcoat was cashmere—nothing else looked that soft and fine, did it? The tweed suit was well-worn and a little shabby, yet it must have cost quite a bit when it was new.

‘Do you actually live in Silverburn?’ she asked him, and he nodded, glancing down at her.

‘I’ve just moved into a flat in Townwall Street.’

She stiffened and gave him another startled look as he held the door of the coffee-bar open for her. ‘Really? That’s where I live—I’ve got a flat on the first floor of the big new apartment block right next to the entrance to the new shopping centre.’

He halted, staring down at her. ‘Snap! My flat is on the top floor—number fourteen. What an amazing coincidence.’ His blue eyes were almost dark in the brighter lights.

Kit felt quite odd about it. She didn’t believe in fate but it was a very big coincidence that they should have run into each other in a cinema like that. Or was it? Had he seen her going in or out of the building? Had he followed her to the cinema tonight? Or recognised her in the cinema and deliberately picked her up like that?

She had thought he looked familiar, she recalled. She must have seen him without really noticing him. It hadn’t just been that fleeting, fugitive resemblance to Clark Gable that had struck her.

If he had told her he lived in the same block of flats she probably wouldn’t have agreed to have coffee with him; she would have suspected his motives. But she couldn’t get out of it now.

They found a small table right in the corner and sat down. The noise was deafening; a jukebox was playing near the bar and the other customers yelled at each other over the deep beat of rock music.

A young waitress chewing gum came over, pad in one hand, pencil in the other, and stared at them indifferently.

‘Yes?’

‘Two coffees, please,’ Joe said, smiling at her.

‘Anything else?’ She didn’t smile back, just chewed her gum.

‘No, thank you.’

The girl walked away. Joe gave Kit a wry grin. ‘Maybe we should have gone to the pub instead. It might not have been so noisy.’

‘Noisier tonight,’ Kit assured him. ‘There’s a darts match on; they’re playing their rival pub; it could get very nasty.’

‘You drink there?’ He looked surprised.

‘I sometimes eat my lunch there on weekdays-they do very good food. Doreen, the landlady, was at school with me.’

The waitress came back and dumped their coffees on the table. ‘Will you pay me now? We’re closing in fifteen minutes and we want to cash up the till.’

Kit began to get out her purse, but Joe had already given the girl a handful of coins. ‘Keep the change,’ he said.

‘Thanks,’ she said, with the first flicker of a smile, and walked away again.

Kit offered him the price of her coffee. He shook his head. ‘You can pay next time.’

‘Who says there’s going to be a next time?’ But she put her purse back into her handbag.

‘I hope there will.’ He looked at her seriously and she looked down, flushing. He was giving her butterflies in her stomach, and it was a very long time since a man had done that to her. She didn’t know how to answer him.

After a pause he asked, ‘Do you have a job?’

‘I work for the local auctioneer, Keble’s.’

‘Doing what?’

‘I help in most departments. I take auctions, I price antiques and paintings, work on the accounts, even help with packing up items for posting if we’re short-handed.’

‘You must be very clever. Have you had years of training?’

‘Not exactly. I did an art degree before I got married, and my father ran an antiques shop, so I picked up quite a bit from him. I worked in the shop with him after I got married, to earn some extra money while my son was small.

‘I kept up my studies in the evenings, while Paul was asleep; I read a good deal and I took evening classes. I managed to get to London quite often to visit museums and art galleries. My husband was an expert in Oriental ceramics; he taught me a great deal too. I inherited my father’s personal collection of English furniture and porcelain when he died, so I suppose in one way or another I’ve been studying antiques all my life.’

Joe leaned his elbows on the table, sipping his coffee while he stared at her, his blue eyes narrowed and thoughtful. She stared back, prickling at the fixed nature of his gaze, and when he still didn’t speak said after a minute, ‘What? What?’

‘What what?’ he repeated, laughing.

‘What are you thinking?’ she asked him crossly.

He put out a finger and flicked it down her cheek, his voice soft. ‘That your hair is like spun silver and when you’re full of enthusiasm your face lights up as you talk.’

She went pink. ‘Oh, stop it! I’m not a teenager to be flattered like that.’ She took a sip of her own coffee; it was lukewarm by now. It couldn’t have been very hot to start with.

‘How long have you been divorced?’

Another of his abrupt, direct questions. ‘Five years,’ she said. ‘What about you?’

‘I can’t even remember. She left me years ago—said she was sick of being married to a man she never saw, and I can’t blame her; I was always out of the country. She thought my job was dangerous, too.’

‘Was it?’

He laughed. ‘In a way—if you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, but luckily I never was. Oh, I had a few little accidents—broke a leg once, got shot in the shoulder, got blown off my feet and spent a few weeks with concussion and a touch of deafness in one ear—but—’

‘But nothing serious,’ Kit drily concluded for him, and he grinned at her, amusement in his blue eyes.

‘Well, I survived it all, let’s put it like that.’

‘Let’s,’ she agreed. ‘What on earth made you choose Silverburn to move to after this peaceful life of yours? Do you think you’re ready for the heady excitements of our bustling metropolis?’

Quite seriously he said, ‘I was sick of flying around the world, sick of wars and famines, sick of city life, very sick of daily tension. I wanted to get out into the English countryside, and I had an aunt who lived here once, when I was just a kid. I remembered it as a lovely town, full of old buildings and great shops, and close to some gorgeous countryside too—so I came to look it over and decided it would suit me down to the ground.’

The waitress was banging a saucepan on the counter. ‘Closing time!’ she yelled. ‘Go home, all of you!’

Grumbling, the other customers began to get up, put on coats, fasten their buttons, before drifting out into the night.

Joe and Kit followed. They were the last customers; the waitress locked up behind them.

‘Can I give you a lift? My car is parked over behind the cinema,’ Joe offered.

‘I came in my own car,’ Kit said, walking purposefully towards the same cinema car park. The street was almost empty now; the teenagers from the coffee-bar were running to catch a late-night bus, everyone from the cinema had gone home and there was very little traffic at this time of night.